It’s been a good weekend, and not just because I was introduced to a The Divine Comedy song which is cheesy and glorious, even tho I’m late to the party, probably by decades.
Anthems about finding happiness and appreciating your friendships and being disappointed when you die are soothing, and not just because they justify the fact I spent a ludicrous amount of money on cheese and wine.
I know: spending ban. But I’d planned this. Old, old friends, I see rarely. Special friends. I have a tradition of taking good cheese to dinner with them, which is to say I live near an amazing cheesemonger and rarely get the chance to indulge, because you can only eat so much cheese alone, even when you fucking love cheese. And my friends, these friends, they love cheese too.
Same thing with wine, and the cheesemonger is opposite a really lovely indie wine merchant which makes my credit card ache. I said, “Can I have a really crisp rosé to drink before dinner in the garden with some brilliant friends on a very special occasion?”
A man so French he was like a cartoon of French wine merchants walked me to a fridge and talked me through about five of them. I didn’t understand a word.
I asked him which one he would buy, and he told me, and I bought it.
A few hours later, I presented it to my chums, and they announced it was a Bondal rosé, and that’s the best kind. I wouldn’t know about that, but it was the best rosé I’ve ever, ever drunk.
So that was fabulous, and I talked and laughed in someone else’s garden, for as long as was humanly possible, then fell asleep in my make up, and ate kedgeree for breakfast, and had to get back to London by lunchtime to meet my parents, who were making a Royal visit.
Then there was parental Sunday roast by the river, which I just about survived. It’s not that it wasn’t nice to see them, but as soon as – as soon as! – they had left the building, I dived in a bath with a Shoot for the Stars bath bomb. It’s a Christmas product which smells of honey, and we all know how obsessed I am by baths that smell of honey. The fresh ones are among my favourite bath bombs ever – possibly my favourite ever – like being hugged, and beautiful purple water to boot.
This one, however, I got from Ebay during a desperate craving, and it was old and stale and sunk to the bottom of the bath, and made the water a pinkish maroon at best. It didn’t really matter because I fell asleep anyway. I woke myself up with a weird high-pitched half snore, and went straight to bed.
My body hates me so much, I am thinking of chopping off my legs below the knee with a rusty spoon.